


One Big Happy

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Character Conflicts, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family Dynamics, Father/Daughter Relationship, Gen, Post-Argument Chats, Protective Father (Jim Gordon), sisterly bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insanity does not run in this family.  Rather, it strolls through, taking its time, getting to know everyone personally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to point out, first and foremost, the summary quote is something I found online; I have no idea who said it, but whoever did is a genius and I borrowed it with great gratitude because it sums up this dynamic a little too well.
> 
> Moving on - this one is split in two parts for the sake of pacing and length. I thought 11,000+ words was a bit much for one breath. Please enjoy. :)

_“My name is Jim. Jim Gordon. I’m here to help you.”_

For first-responding officers to any crime scene, especially one with a living victim, the words are well-rehearsed, practically instinctual, and he’d thought nothing of letting them fall, breath pluming in the bitterly-cold air, while he set a hand to shoulders much too thin and far too frail, and let himself believe the gesture was reassuring for a lost child. It was supposed to soothe, to comfort, to give some stability in the otherwise turbulent storm of her uprooted life.

_“Your name has, and always will, mean Father to me.”_

It’s strange to consider those words would serve the exact purpose of an earlier misguided attempt to calm a troubled soul; the latter spoken seven years prior on a grisly crime scene, the former offered quietly on a pale morning, with slender arms deceptively strong and unwavering as they cradled a grown man in their embrace. What comfort his words ever gave _her_ , that night, Jim cannot and will likely never know. The comfort she gave _him_ , on his kitchen floor, while the thrumming ache of a monstrous hangover beat at his brain like a judge’s gavel, is beyond words, beyond description. He cried— _sobbed_ —in a way not done since the day of his father’s untimely death, clung to her like a battered child, and she held him without waver.

He awakens this morning with some very vague recollections: being brought to the manor yesterday afternoon, being shown to a guest room, and collapsing in a mattress of goose-down and bedcovers likely costing more than he made in a month. After that, he remembers nothing but a blissfully dreamless sleep, nothing but pure unconscious oblivion, and returning to the realm of the living with a warm caress of sunlight over his brow.

When he slowly sits up, the first thing to catch attention is, off to the left side, a chair with clothing neatly piled in the seat. He recognizes the steel-grey button-up shirt as his, as is the dark-wash denim, though they came from the far reaches of his closet; he almost never wears jeans, as a personal rule. A pair of old work boots—“old” referring to their age, not their appearance—from the days when he actually had some semblance of a social life that required footwear aside from department-issued uniform attire, are resting nearby on the floor.

He can’t resist a tiny smile. This feels something akin to normal, where the daughter graciously puts her father up for a night and makes sure he has fresh clothes that look more presentable than old sweats.

Taking a hot shower for longer than five minutes in the morning is a rare indulgence, and he makes the most of it. The bathroom is steamed to mimic a sauna when he finally steps out and wraps himself in a towel that could be sewn from the clouds. All the frustration, the grime of self-loathing and disgust, the dirt of old sins, is gone. His skin feels like his own again, new and clean and untainted, as fresh as a newborn babe.

_“Do you believe we are the sum of our past?”_

Iris’ voice teases his ear, from memory, as he runs the towel across his hair. He remembers the question, and the scene, as though it were happening right now, as though he were once again an integral part of it, gathering up the discarded beer bottles and To-Go food wrappers from an impromptu “Boys Night In,” courtesy of Harvey, while Iris sits on the stairs, halfway between her lofted bedroom and the main floor.

Her question made him pause, think it over for a moment, then he shrugged. _“The past is a hell of a stain to wash out, Iris.”_

The question was not entirely out-of-the-blue, given much of the evening had been spent with Harvey discussing the flaws and flukes of his misguided youth. As solemn as any drunken judge, Harvey’s final bit of wisdom was to advise Iris against wasting her young years on reckless decisions and impulsive action. The man could sound remarkably profound when he had five beers in him.

_“There is a simple and effective course of action to deal with it.”_ She answered, dark curls soft as they framed her cheeks, blue eyes bright but solemn as they considered him. _“Burn it to the ground.”_

_“Simple as that, is it?”_ At the time, he thought her words amusing, as he often did, in their brutally stoic delivery. Perhaps, had he ever been a wiser man, he would have listened more and considered carefully.

_“Ashes leave no stain. They disappear in the wind.”_

He hangs the towel back in place with a low sigh. _Ashes leave no stain._ Burn it to the ground. Burn away the shame, the guilt, the grief, the hatred for so many things and several people and most of all himself, and watch it flutter away with the next breeze, carried to places unknown, never again to haunt his door.

He looks down at his hands. For the first time in months, he can no longer see the blood.

***

Selina and Iris are together in the front room when he descends to the ground level, freshly-showered and dressed. The young blonde is perched, with cat-like grace befitting her street name, atop the grand piano, feet and arms bare in calm defiance of the morning chill, while Iris plays a cheerful little tune across ivory keys. The thin cotton pants and loose sweater fit her well, far more casual than she’s known to dress, and yet complimenting her youth and, distorted or not, innocence. He wonders if she often wandered about the loft dressed this way, when he wasn’t there to see. He’s sure of it.

As the song continues, recognition follows. He smiles, quietly clears his throat, and takes a polite step forward. “ _Yankee Doodle Dandy_?”

Iris shrugs one shoulder, head turning to grace him with a truly radiant smile. “I taught myself how to play it, after you told me about the army.”

“Hard-as-nails Detective Gordon, an army man?” Selina quips, amusement playing thinly across her lips. “There’s a shocker.”

Jim plays along, declaring himself a master of disguise, and he’s quite confident Selina’s smirk softens, just a little, into something that might be considered a smile. Iris’ expression never wavers. He can’t remember the last time she actually smiled at him. Maybe she did, once, for a reason he doesn’t recall…? Well, no matter. He’ll start cataloguing every bestowed expression of delight from henceforth.

Butch strolls to the open archway and stands at polite attention until Iris takes notice of him with a brief greeting. He declares all the preparations have been finished, and their guests—Jim recognizes the Orlov family name, one of the more prominent Russian families in Gotham with plenty of notoriety to boot—will be arriving around five this evening.

The announcement is perhaps an unintentional but nevertheless warranted reminder that he is only a guest in Iris’ home. She has business to conduct—illicit or otherwise, it doesn’t really matter and it’s not worth investigating—and, from the sound of it, a dinner party to host tonight. He decides to stay through the early afternoon, no later than one o’clock, and then take his leave.

“Can I take Shakta out for a bit, Iris?” Selina asks, and Jim does a double-take. Did _Selina Kyle_ just ask permission to leave the premises?

“If I have your word to return by dinner, _mon petite_.” Iris answers mildly; one eyebrow arches neatly as she considers the younger girl’s nodded assurances. “And that you will _both_ be safe.”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.” The added gesture of an index finger stabbing the heart like a small dagger makes Jim’s eyebrows bounce high, but apparently he’s the only one remotely alarmed, because Iris smiles graciously and presses a light kiss to Selina’s forehead. He then spends the next ten seconds racking his memory for who Shakta might be, when the young thief whistles twice, and something very white suddenly appears from behind the piano.

_Oh, right. The tiger._ How could he forget an hour’s worth of “impassioned conversation” with Iris over whether or not she could, would, and/or should keep the runt of a tiger cub litter as her “pet”? Not to mention, the additional two hours he spent conversing with the manager of Haley’s Circus, which ended only when Jim finally pulled his trump card and threatened to “accidentally leak” the news of such a reputable circus harboring a psychotic mother-killer under their tents. Crude and rather distasteful, but effective.

And, apparently, one of his better judgment calls, even if he mildly resented Iris reminding him—in front of half the precinct—that he’d promised her a pet when the adoption was first finalized. Naturally, he’d meant a puppy, or a goldfish, or a kitten. Informing Iris as much had been a grandiose mistake on his part, and damned if she hadn’t bent his ear about it: a puppy was improbable unless he would let her adopt a wolf pup, a goldfish was a source of food for carnivorous fish or predatory mammals and consequently a terrible excuse for “pet”, and as for a kitten…let him not remember the thirty-five minutes (yes, he was counting) of her laying out, in great detail, how the tiger cub qualified as a kitten, because both were considered members of the family _Felidae_.

The cub is most definitely not a “cub” anymore; her head easily reaches the upper-mid section of his thigh, her muscles and bone structure have filled out impressively, solid and strong where they were once thin and nearly frail, and her previously all-white fur now has thick streaks of black running from head to tail. She turns sharp blue eyes on him, and he hesitantly offers his hand to be sniffed—because, really, _what else_ are you supposed to do with a tiger?

She does sniff him, and he can only determine she has impartial feelings for him after she blinks twice and then resumes her lengthy stretching across the carpet. She yawns, and he earns a free glimpse of sharp teeth and canines that could probably take a man’s hand off, if she bit hard enough.

“Where are you taking her?” Iris asks, watching Shakta with a fond expression.

“I tell Bruce about Shakta all the time.” Selina grins. “So I thought I’d bring her by.”

Jim has a brief vision of Alfred Pennyworth’s face, seeing his young charge in the company of an adolescent tiger, likely right in the middle of a freshly-vacuumed living room. He wonders if he maybe he shouldn’t put emergency services on stand-by.

Without warning and without much regard for who or what might be in her way, Shakta abruptly bounds out of a stretch and nearly knocks Jim off his feet in a forward rush that rivals Olympic racers. Behind him, he hears a quiet grunt, and then the sound of highly amorous purring, rumbling through the air like a car engine. Iris rolls her eyes, though still with some affection, and quietly reminds Selina to be back by three. Selina agrees to her curfew, and Jim promptly wonders which side of the Looking Glass he’s managed to fall into now.

At the entry, Shakta is shamelessly trying to scale Zsasz’s front from the waist up while rubbing her head insistently against his chest. Jim’s eyes meet the other man’s, expecting the same cocky arrogance and smug satisfaction, but finds something else; absent a proper name, but almost cold in its regard. He feels the tiniest trickle of danger creep up his spine. Not enough to warrant action, but enough to be noticed and acknowledged.

Then Jim blinks, and whatever was there to be seen in the hitman’s gaze is gone, vanished; his dark blue eyes are all for the needy mass of fur and claws and teeth seeking his attention. Large pale hands glide through white and black, fingers rubbing here, stroking there; his voice is low, murmurs inaudible to anyone but the intended recipient. Shakta rubs her nose under his chin, twice, then slowly lowers and reassumes proper posture with a quiet gesture from Zsasz’s hand.

The tiger is certainly well-trained. Maybe a little too well. And maybe she’s a little too affectionate towards Zsasz…or maybe Jim is just overthinking all of this.

“C’mon, Shakta,” Selina croons, “let’s go make a new friend.”

The verbal cue, unintentional as it is, inspires Jim to action. “I should take off too.” He answers; it’s only from the peripheral, so he can’t be entirely sure he’s seeing this right, but he’s almost confident Zsasz just rolled his eyes like an insolent teenager. “Make sure I still have a job.”

Iris stands from the piano, footsteps quiet on the plush carpet, and approaches with a gentle tilt to her head. “But you will return tonight, to join us for dinner.” 

It’s half a question, but more a statement. When he pauses, she reads the hesitation and steps forward, more insistently. “Please, James.”

There’s a prickling heat creeping up the back of his neck, and he’s quite certain it’s coming from the furiously cold glare Zsasz is shooting at him. Better judgment encourages a polite refusal, but this is Iris, his daughter, and she’s inviting him to dinner. Albeit, dinner with members of the Russian mafia and other similar parties, and it should be no different than a formal invite from Penguin to dine in Gotham’s underworld…but it is. Somehow, someway, it just feels different. And he doesn’t have time to study it more.

“This isn’t black tie, is it?” he finally asks, with a small smile just to lighten the mood.

Iris returns the expression, though on a much broader scale and with hands warmly clasping his. “Less formal than your own wedding, a touch more than your sweats.”

It occurs to him, like a smack upside the head, he’s never heard her make jokes before. Dry wit, yes. Plenty of sass and sarcasm and a few smirks, yes, yes, and definitely. But not jokes. Not genuine humor. He feels an inexplicable bubble of delight swell inside him.

“I’ll see you in a few hours.”

***

“You were wrong.”

Iris pauses, only briefly, and then resumes the reading of her documents, though with a little less attention. “If you are expecting an apology,” she murmurs, “I feel it necessary to remind you, it is a waste of time.”

“I don’t give a damn about apologies.” Victor continues, voice bitterly cold, and steps closer. “The point remains, you were wrong.”

“Was I?”

“Yes.” He stops only when both hands are splayed wide across the polished surface, fingertips white, taut against the wood; when she chances an upward glance to his face, the expression is like stone and his eyes are much too dark. “They have nothing to do with this. With _us_.”

With smooth grace, she stands, nudging the chair back with her inner knee, and steps around the desk to close the distance between them. “Victor,” she whispers, steeling her nerves and ironing her resolve, even in the face of a rather hellish fury, “you hold me so tightly. There are times I cannot _breathe_ , when you hold me. It frightens me.” Two more steps. “ _You_ frighten me, because I feel you do not trust me. And I cannot fathom why.”

“So your solution was to align yourself with my parents.” He replies, tone biting and sharp; he pushes himself back upright and matches her forward steps. “Why would you do that? _Why?_ You know—”

“—That you loved them, more than you can or will ever express?” she answers, holding his gaze without pause. “That you still love them, and you still mourn what was a completely unavoidable tragedy? Perhaps, in your darkest moments, you blame yourself; place guilt on your shoulders that is not yours to claim? Tell me, my tiger…what is it I know? Or do not know?”

It’s not as though her words were intended to soothe, and they certainly don’t. Victor releases a low and sharp breath that cuts the air like a knife, then continues forward until they’re mere inches apart. “What purpose do I have in your life, Iris?”

The question is not entirely unexpected, but it still stings a path across her nerves. When she doesn’t answer immediately, he closes the space with another step, hands fisting at both sides. His voice is strained, in a way she’s only heard once or twice before. Even now, it makes her quiver, and maintaining her resolve is proving more difficult. “Bringing Gordon back into our lives, again…that’s one thing. I can probably even forgive you for it. But my parents? My _parents_ , Iris?”

She nearly shivers at his tone. Rarely is he so angry, especially with her, and it makes the rarity all the worse to endure. Were she a bit less brave, or perhaps a touch wiser, she’d never dare provoke the beast. And yet, here she is. “You say I am wrong. Tell me in what way. Tell me the thought never occurs to you, that I could walk out the door and never come back. It happened before, under circumstances neither of us could control. It could happen again. You know it could. And the thought makes you _sick_.”

Now, he won’t look at her. She reaches up and captures his face in one hand, gently returning the icy stare back to her. “Why can things not be as they once were, Victor?” she whispers; daring to step closer poses a risk, but it’s one she takes willingly, just to share his space, “We never spoke to each other so harshly. We never had secrets. We never sought to hurt each other.”

The hand on his face slowly falls downward, running fingers across his lapels and settling at the chest. “You are everything to me, _moy tigr_. You always will be. But I…I feel uncertain, that I am or ever will be that for you.”

The silence, this time, borders on unbearable, so she breaks it and pushes a little further. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

Finally, the arctic spell seems to lessen, or at least dissolves from his expression. As if their nearness suddenly occurs to him, as though he’s finally seeing her, even seeing her for the first time, his arms abruptly shoot out and drag her tight to his chest. His hands clutch, fingers pressing deep into her skin, in a way painfully reminiscent of their reunion, so many months ago, when he found her beneath a cold winter sky, beaten and battered and half-dead. He’s still that man embracing a ghost, courting her at the same time as he courts insanity. She thought it was over, though she brought him back…but she was wrong.

“Victor,” both hands glide back to cradle his face, “answer me. Do you want me as your wife, to be your wife, or because it is one more chain to bind me to you?”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” He snaps, the fire back in his gaze. “You think, of all people, I would ever put you back where I found you?”

“Damn it, Victor, _take me back there_.” Her hands fist tight in his shirt front, yanking him closer with an insistence he isn’t expecting; the fire is still there, but fades against the flicker of surprise. “Take us both back there, to the night we first met, and let us continue from there. Please…I do not—I _cannot_ live like this anymore. I want you back. I want my tiger.”

There is nothing particularly profound about what she’s saying—if anything, her words flounder on the dramatic side and the only thing sparing them from such a fate is the urgency in her tone—but for reasons she can’t yet understand, it’s having a remarkable impact on him. The icy rage is fading from his eyes, from the sharp lines in his face; if she squints or looks under the right light, he appears much younger, he looks tired, and she wonders if this is a glimpse into the past.

Her head tilts to the left; she leans forward, hands now flat against his clothed chest, and her lips find his cheek. The subtle line of his mouth is soft against her mouth, and she lingers in place while the skin relearns it, absorbing the innocence of a chaste gesture. It is a far cry from the exchanges they commonly share, but she hears his soft exhale, feels it rustle against her temple, and the hot coil of tension withers from his frame like weeds beneath a hot summer sun.

_Our first kiss._

“Think about it.” She whispers. When distance is set between them again, right as she turns to finish work before the evening’s preparations must begin, half a second before he turns and makes his exit, she would almost swear to the flicker of something that, however loosely, resembles a smile.

***

In a bizarre demonstration of kind fortune, the day does not end with a swift dismissal and boot out the door. Essen is so openly relieved to know Jim isn’t dead in a ditch somewhere that she forgets to be angry until the last fifteen minutes of their conversation. He takes the half-hearted lecture about being a no-call, no-show for two consecutive days with solemn understanding and respectful murmurings about it never happening again. When she releases him, he quietly walks into the men’s locker room, closes the door, and promptly punches two triumphant fists in the air.

It’s absurd. It’s illogical. There is absolutely no reason for him to be celebrating anything when, frankly, dismissal from the force—for the second time in the same year—would probably be a reprieve and certainly much better for his physical (and mental) health. But by God, he’s going to celebrate anyway.

For the rest of the day, people around him are either appropriately intrigued, and maybe a little amused, or downright petrified. He’s in a perfectly jovial mood, going downstairs and enthusiastically thanking Nygma for notifying Iris—because, after all, who else would have thought to call her instead of Harvey or the commissioner or someone much more sensible?—and even spends an extra half hour with the man and listening to his accounts of their latest victim, intermixed with a few riddles. When he takes his leave, Ed is cheerfully humming to himself and Jim actually feels like he learned a thing or two. Such a strange feeling, to not be so rushed that he can only take the raw facts and never have a spare moment for something else, something that quite possibly could enrich his mind.

He has a late lunch with Lee at a little diner down the street, apologizes for dropping off the radar without notice, and then advises he won’t be home again tonight. This time, she asks for details, albeit politely, and he doesn’t hesitate to offer them up between bites.

“I’m having dinner with my daughter and her family.”

This is where the understated or less-discussed aspects of his personal life—and hers, for that matter—come into sharp focus and jar the otherwise smooth flow of a conversation. He’s not surprised when Lee drops her fork and her eyes widen to nearly perfect circles, nor when she pours out a barrage of questions: How can Iris be alive? Does Jim know what “that monster” did to her? When did she return to Gotham? Did she ever leave Gotham? Where is she now? Is she well? How long has he known?

The last question carries with it a subtle but nevertheless obvious implication: _How long have you been hiding this from me?_ That is the true question that she won’t directly ask, but it’s wrapped up nice and snug inside the one she does ask. He takes his time answering, pretending to savor a stew that pales in comparison to the delectable concoction Iris served him yesterday. Only when the bowl is empty does he consent to answer.

“I don’t know.” He replies, hands neatly folded around his coffee mug. “I don’t know if he ever took her outside of Gotham. I don’t know how she escaped him. I don’t know what he did to her.” _I don’t want to know_ , he silently adds, “All I know is, she’s alive, she’s safe, and that’s all that matters.”

The silence is heavy, more awkward than not, and the subject is never revisited until he announces the need to return and she agrees with a quiet nod. As they enter the precinct doors, she finally decides to impart a final bit of wisdom on him.

“I’ll be the first to admit forensic psychology is not my specialty,” she says, very quietly but with a strangely cold resolve in her gaze, “and therefore I’m not particularly qualified to pass judgment. But I do want you to remember something, Jim: what Jason Lennon did to those girls was…monstrous, and they aren’t alive to tell the tale or keep living through the nightmare. Iris survived, somehow, someway. And I think it would be wise for you to remember she may never be the same for it.”

He lets the conversation end with that, without further discussion, and watches her walk away. She’s frustrated with him; that much he can tell, and clearly. And she’s right, qualified or not, to make such an assessment. The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Iris _is_ changed. He’s seen enough, even in little glimpses, to know it’s true.

But it doesn’t matter.

***

“I _hate_ heels.”

“Because you do not know how to walk in them.” Iris answers, apparently unmoved by the frosty green glare being thrown her way, and beckons Selina closer. The willful defiance of a teenager holds out for about fifteen seconds, before it’s dampened down by an unfortunate bit of logic: Iris can stand there just as long as she can, dragging this out only hurts one of them, and it won’t be Iris hurting in the end.

She plops on the mattress edge without grace, watching as Iris calmly peruses the ridiculous selection of shoes and dresses—the kind Selina hasn’t seen since Bruce Wayne decided to rent out half the department stores in Gotham just to dress her for a fundraising event—spread across the room. Long fingers idly twirl through the air while Iris makes quiet calculations under her breath. Then, finally, her hand swoops down and snatches up a pair of silver sandals, the heel resembling a martini glass stem, with straps crisscrossing across the foot and slinking around the ankle.

The pinch across her feet isn’t nearly as bad as the pumps she wore for the Wayne Enterprises event last year, but the heels are much taller and way less supportive. She gets them on, stands up, and promptly sways to the left. Iris’ hands are there before she loses all balance, catching her neatly by the shoulders and straightening her upright. There’s a confident smile that Selina both despises—this woman can _run_ in stilettoes, and she can’t even stand straight for two seconds—and is intrigued by.

“Now,” Iris instructs, stepping around but keeping both hands on Selina’s shoulders for support, “bring your shoulders back—no, no, not that far; you are not in an army brigade—and relax your arms. Keep your spine straight, not curved forward…good. Very good. Now, hold that, and let me see you walk.”

Feeling a bit like a show-room dog, Selina makes a quick strut across the room and turns back as quickly as possible. Iris is shaking her head as soon as Selina makes her turn, and lifts a hand for her to pause mid-step. “Use your hips, Selina.”

“…Excuse me?”

Her lack of understanding at least makes Iris smile a bit before continuing, “Your hips. Use them to shift the weight from one leg to the next, as you walk. Otherwise you walk like a newborn giraffe.”

_Fine. Take two._ She continues forward, dividing attention between keeping her posture in form and letting her hips—which, she’ll admit, are seriously lacking in the curves department—sway from side to side. After the first three steps, Iris stops her again, with a comment about her hips popping like popcorn kernels. Now, it’s time for a visual demonstration.

“Watch my hips.” Iris says, slipping easily into her heels—a sleek pair of black stilettoes that make her legs look long and smooth and Selina can’t imagine how Zsasz would get a shred of work done while the woman wears those things—and beginning a steady stroll across the room. She makes it look unfairly easy.

“Let each side move with each other, Selina.” She offers, once show-and-tell is finished and they’re standing face-to-face again. “When you step with the left foot, the entire left side moves with it, smooth and gliding. Do not focus so much on keeping balance; when you let yourself simply move, the balance comes naturally. Try again.”

_Take three._ She puts her shoulders back, exhales slowly, and stares at the wall like it’s a prized jewel she plans to swipe for herself. A great big diamond—no, no, a ruby; she likes rubies—with a flawless cut and clean lines and lots of sparkle. She sees it, she wants it, and she’ll have it. But she must be smooth; must be graceful and stealthy. Every limb must be tucked close; every movement properly executed and always accounted for. _Smooth. Graceful. Stealthy._

“Perfect.” Iris’ pleased murmur interrupts her thoughts. “Whatever thoughts you were using, continue doing so. Distract yourself, and suddenly the effort is not so terrible.”

She’ll concede that point, at least. And she’s been wearing the things for almost fifteen minutes and doesn’t have the desire to chop her feet off. Small improvements, but not one to be overlooked.

“Now,” Iris continues, strolling over to a collection of evening dresses that are taking up an entire corner of the room, “for the rest.”

“Uh-uh.” Selina shakes her head, backpedaling like an Olympic champion. Her eyes run swiftly over the selection; each one is much too glamorous, much too elegant. None of them belong on a street rat, a thief who has lived by scraping by and only retaining some pretty features by dumb luck.

Iris sighs. “May I ask why you are so fervently obstinate when it comes to highlighting your beauty?”

“I’m not beautiful, Iris.” She says, though the words come a little more quietly than she’d have liked. _I’m not you._

“Actually, you are.” The older woman answers, finally plucking a dress from the grouping and beckoning Selina forward with a pointed expression and solid gesture; it’s enough to remind Selina that resistance is both futile and giant waste of time. “But that is beside the point.”

“…Then what _is_ the point?”

Iris gives her a very strange half-smile and motions for her to undress. She suddenly feels very exposed, very naked, and very vulnerable, which is absolutely ridiculous; the woman has seen her in the bath, for God’s sake. There’s no reason her fingers should be shaking and taking much longer than needed to strip out of her shirt and leggings. And yet it does.

“Come.” Iris beckons her now into the bathroom, and starts up a warm bath. It’s a replication of her first night in this house, and she pauses before coming any closer. At her side, old wounds tingle, like needles pricking under the skin. Her teeth bite down on her lower lip, trying to pull it together, but the tears come first. Iris doesn’t miss them.

Slender hands, sharply pale against her shoulders, gently steer her to face the mirror. Under the golden glow of light, every detail seems illuminated and she wants to cringe away. Iris won’t let her.

“You _are_ beautiful, Selina.” She murmurs, blue eyes meeting green in the mirror’s reflection. “You are beautiful now, and you will only continue to become beautiful. People see this. Men see this. They will see you, and they will see a pretty face on an empty-headed child. They will think you are weak. Easy prey.”

_They already do._

“Let them think this.” Iris continues, brushing thumbs lightly over her shoulders. “Be beautiful. Be _proud_ to be beautiful. Do not forsake your looks just to spite them. Take pride in how you look, and use it to your advantage.”

“How?”

“Beauty is a web, _ma belle_.” She gently directs Selina away from the mirror and settles nearby while the blonde sinks into a cocoon of hot water and lavender-scented soap suds. “A web, in which you delicately and artfully lead your prey. Some confuse looks as some great weapon of war, but it is merely the initial means by which you prepare for an offense. A pretty face is precisely that, and nothing more, if she does not possess the only _true_ weapon.”

Selina pauses in the middle of coating her skin with creamy suds and tilts her head curiously. Iris’ lips curve into that strange, razor-sharp smile that both threatens and reassures. “Your mind, Selina.” She murmurs; a single hand reaches out and glides fingers through damp curls, smoothing them from her forehead. “With your mind, you can begin wars and stand the sole victor in the end. With your mind, you can set more traps than you ever fall into, and escape those that mange to ensnare you. With your mind, you can escape the Devil himself with barely a scar to show for it.”

It’s moments such as these when Selina is reminded, so fully and so brutally, why she stays here. Why she remains in this place, with this woman; why she has found a place to call home even in a world which, by most rights, she doesn’t belong. This is a world of old money, great wealth obtained through a variety of means, of fancy parties and beautiful women and handsome men. This is a world she steals into, makes off with a few treats for her trouble, and then leaves because she doesn’t belong.

“I don’t know how to do that.” She finally whispers, watching the water dilute her soapy skin and wash it clean. She knows many things: the best kind of shoes to run in, the quickest escape routes in any given building, how long to will take to pick a lock just by looking at it, who the best marks are in a crowd…she knows lots of things, when it comes to living on the streets. To survive in this world…she wouldn’t have the first clue.

“Not yet.” Iris answers, cupping one hand over Selina’s brow and running water through her hair with the other. When her hands return and lather curls with shampoo, it’s a relaxing massage that lulls Selina into pure relaxation: a state in which she doesn’t have to do a thing but listen to Iris’ words and close her eyes to avoid soap running into them. “But time changes us, _cher feline_. We will not always be as we are now. You will grow, you will change…and I, for one, have great hopes for and visions of the woman you are meant to become.”

***

A few minutes later, freshly bathed and dried, Selina sits in front of the vanity, facing the wall and practicing the kind of perfect posture she sees Iris hold flawlessly hour after hour after hour, while the other woman carefully rolls sections of hair into thick, spiraled curls. Selina waits, with mild anxiety, for the prick of hair pins against her scalp, but they never come. Iris pauses, from time to time, to spritz hairspray here and there—“For better volume, and to keep it in place,” she says, when Selina asks—and then continues curling.

When Iris pulls out a collection of eye shadow and mascara and a few other makeup products Selina barely recognizes, she squirms a little and casts a questioning look. “Relax.” Iris smiles affectionately. “I hardly plan to make you a lady of the night. James will never let me hear the end of it.”

“He’s not my dad.” Selina grumbles, obediently closing both eyes. A brush sweeps over her eyelids. It tickles.

“Nor is he mine, by blood.” Iris replies, repeating the motion over the other eyelid. “Nor is he Bruce Wayne’s. And yet, it seems he has managed to adopt each of us, in his own right. Strange how it all works out, no?”

_Understatement of the year_ , Selina quietly smirks to herself. Iris then tells her to open her eyes, and look up. Something cool and creamy runs across the corners of her eyelids; it’s hard to not blink or wriggle away from the strange sensation. Then, it’s a similar feeling across her lips, during which time she has to open and close her mouth a couple different times, per Iris’ instructions. She presses her mouth together when the sensation stops; they feel sticky, but it’s not uncomfortable.

The dress is a shade of turquoise like nothing she’s ever seen before, and the silk is buttery-smooth against her skin. Her shoulders are left bare—she has to smirk, a little, imagining Gordon’s face—but the bodice fits well against her chest, even without any complimentary curves to fit inside. The waist collects at her left side, with folds cascading down into the skirt and ending at her knee. She idly turns in place, enjoying the gentle swish against her legs with a tiny smile.

Iris makes a thoughtful sound, then fetches something from her jewelry box. Actually, a couple something’s: a diamond-laced clasp that she fastens to Selina’s waist, right in the gathered fabric, and a matching necklace-and-earring set. It’s hardly anything gaudy or blatant, like some of the jewels she’s seen on the rich and obscenely-wealthy of this city, but the simplicity of it catches her breath. It just feels so…so _her_.

“Now,” Iris twirls her back to face the vanity mirror, “say the words out loud, and mean them.”

She can’t, immediately, because her throat locks up and she has to take a moment to actually believe the girl staring back at her is her. Nothing is overdone, or wild, or exaggerated; her hair is full and soft and elegant, her dress is beautiful and almost looks made for her, the green of her eyes stands out amidst the smoky accents and sharp black lines drawn outward to match her eyelashes…

She looks like some rare jewel. Some exotic gem people spend half their lives hunting for and never find. She…she’s…

“I’m beautiful.” She whispers; the girl in the mirror is smiling, and her cheeks hurt, so it must be her. “I am. I _am_ beautiful.”

_I am._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come - now we eat, and drink, then talk of sports and beautiful women."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2. Things go from relaxed to tense, back to relaxed, back to tense...buckle up and hold on.

Jim Gordon is not a man with some elaborate wardrobe filled with Italian suits he’s “accidentally” swiped from the evidence locker, nor does he have the funds tucked away to get himself a few nice suits. The ones he wears to work on a regular basis are by no means shabby or well-worn, but they are definitely run-of-the-mill, and Iris especially has seen them all before.

Tonight, in the company of not only his daughter but also members of Gotham’s elite—he refuses to think about how he’ll be in the presence of criminals, not until tomorrow morning—who will most certainly be in their best, he’s determined to make a sharp first impression.

He’s worn the clothes before, on a night he’d sooner forget than remember, and what better occasion to give them fresh meaning and new purpose? _None._ And so, with calm conviction and an unburdened conscience, he pulls the freshly-laundered suit from his closet and lays it across his bed while he takes a quick shower.

_“Your kid always dress like she’s attending a funeral?”_

He hears Harvey’s idle mumbling like it’s right in his ear, again, as they stand near the coffee maker; his partner watches Iris hand Jim a report to sign, then walk away, a slender ink stain moving in stark contrast to the grey tones of Gotham’s police precinct. Black from head to toe, from her artfully-casual pile of hair to the sleek points of her heels. He remembers telling Harvey to lay off, that black looked good on her, and letting the conversation drop after that.

Now, as he slips into an ensemble of black that easily belongs in a funeral setting, he thinks, perhaps, he understands the appeal. White is supposed to be a blank slate, but after these past years in Gotham, Jim disagrees. He knows better. White is too easily stained, and once the stain is there, nothing will ever remove it. Even bleach leaves a betraying mark. Black, however…black is honest when it wants to be and deceptive when it needs to be. Black hides stains, absorbs them in shadows, just as it can be its own stain. There is a strange freedom in wearing the absence of color, like a badge of honor. People can make their own conclusions as to the meaning and purpose, and at the end of the day, it will remain a mystery.

Before heading out of downtown to the Falcone manor, he swings inside a little clothing shop some distance from his apartment and makes a quick purchase to finalize his appearance for the evening: a royal-blue tie, sleek and simple and a statement in itself. If Penguin’s colors are red, of blood and death, then Iris’ are blue, like the sea, like the sky, like the moonlight, like the cold winter snow.

The woman behind the counter praises the look; she might be flirting with him, or just offering a genuine compliment. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

***

The manor is well lit, and the drive is already lined with cars; he finds an open space near the fence and walks the distance with a pleasantly cool breeze in his lungs. At the door, Butch Gilzean is waiting, dressed in a three-piece suit and a stripe of light grey down his front. He greets Jim with a polite nod and gestures him to the front room. There, an impressive gathering of men and women, young and old, are standing together and chatting. Butch reappears and offers him a water glass; he takes it, wetting a mouth that suddenly seems extraordinarily dry.

Dimitri is the first to approach him, separating from the group with the young brown-haired boy tagging along. The child looks at Jim with a polite, albeit shy, smile; Dimitri regards him with those sharp eyes, the ones seeming almost too large for his face, and yet they could belong on no others’. For a moment, they say nothing, silence suspended almost awkwardly between them, and then Dimitri exhales sharply.

“Father,” he says, voice elevated only slightly, and though his voice is clearly meant for someone in the crowd, his eyes never leave Jim’s face; shortly thereafter, a white-haired elder, likely almost seventy years of age, calmly excuses himself from one conversation and approaches, “this is Detective Gordon.”

It’s always nice to know his name is attached to some brand of notoriety, and especially so now, in this crowd. The elder has sharp eyes, like his son, very keen and perceptive even on weathered features accentuated with carefully-groomed facial hair and thick eyebrows. He carries his weight well, and dresses it even better in a tailored suit with old-world class, from the tie pin that gleams when light hits a solitary emerald mounted in gold to a similarly-colored silk waistcoat with intricately-fashioned gold buttons. Jim, once again, feels very underdressed.

“Detective,” the man says, in heavily-accented English, and extends a hand in formal greeting, “a pleasure.”

Jim accepts the man’s hand, determinedly holding face even under an impressive grip and piercing scrutiny. “Tonight, I’m just James Gordon, sir. Not _Detective_.”

He nods briskly. “I am Alexander Orlov. You know my sons,” he gestures to both youths, still standing at his side, “Dimitri, and Peter.”

Dimitri stiffly nods his greeting; Peter gives him a shy smile. “You are She-Wolf’s father?” he asks, remarkably polite for someone his age.

“I am.” Jim nods, proudly, hold Alexander’s gaze in the process. He didn’t come here to be cowed down fifteen minutes after his arrival.

Alexander releases a quiet sound through his nose. “Are you?”

_Ah._ So that’s how this night is going to begin. Well, better to rip the band aid off quick than linger. His mouth opens, a response prepared, but the old man is, despite his age and guise of physical weakness, much quicker on the draw. “Come. We continue outside, Detective.” He says, in blatant disregard for Jim’s earlier statement. “More privacy.”

He’d rather not. Outside, there are no witnesses. But Alexander is already making a path for the door, and Jim is left with no choice but to follow. Refusing an invitation, however blunt and uncordial as it was, isn’t an option here.

A respectable distance from the entrance, Alexander proffers a cigarette, which Jim politely refuses. His father used to smoke, though not often, and while he foresees heading down a similar path, now isn’t the time. Iris will bend his ear for a month if he comes back in the house reeking of nicotine.

“Am impressed, Detective.” Alexander replies, returning the unlit cigarette to his breast pocket. “Have seen many of yours, puffing like chimney. Is better this way. Filthy habit.”

Jim elects to not question why a man so apparently opposed to smoking carries cigarettes in his pocket, and instead releases a large plume of breath into the chilled night air. At his side, Alexander mirrors the motion, then continues, “Permit me to speak frankly, Detective.”

There’s a pause after his words, though there was certainly no question involved, and Jim quietly nods. The elder inhales deeply, gazes for a leisurely moment across the frostbitten lawn, and expels the breath sharply. “Am aware of reputation. Little bird was yours to kill. You spared him. Now, you kill for him.”

“ _Killed_.” Jim interrupts, determined to not let the point go unaddressed. “Once, and it was self-defense. Barker was trying to kill me.”

“For stealing money.” Alexander continues, unmoved. “For collecting little bird’s debt.”

There’s no arguing that particular matter, and Jim doesn’t try. “Point remains: little bird owns you. Owns you, and wants She-Wolf dead.”

The implications are subtle, but clear. He turns sharply and faces the elder with piercing eyes and hands clenched tight at his side. “You think I’m here to kill for Penguin again.” He whispers; the words are bitter and foul in his mouth, but better him to say it first. “My own daughter.”

Alexander’s eyes flash, suddenly appearing like a hawk, an eagle, some large bird of prey preparing to plummet from the sky and capture prey in a vicious grip. “Audrey Volkov was more than close friend.” He whispers. “We were brothers. Blood of blood. Little wolf was his pride and joy. Died with great hopes for her future.”

He takes a step forward. “Little wolf is now grown. Is She-Wolf now. Clan fights for She-Wolf. Clan will kill for She-Wolf. Will kill enemies of She-Wolf. _All_ enemies.”

“You see me as an enemy.” Jim replies, very quietly.

“Do not know how to see you. Yet.” Alexander takes another step, closing the distance a little more. “Will be watching, Detective. Tonight. Tomorrow. Many days to come, will be watching. Will watch to see if actions match words. If they do, you live. If they do not, you die. And you die slowly.”

At least they’re getting it all out in the open; it’ll make things much easier in the future. “Iris may not be mine by blood,” Jim says, matching a forward step with his own, “but she _is_ my daughter. I haven’t been the kind of father she needed, but I know I can be, and I _will_ be. Watch me all you want, but that woman is my child and Penguin has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll choose him over her.”

A pause, and then he offers a quiet chuckle. “And you should know…Victor Zsasz has first dibs on my head if I hurt Iris. You’ll have to get in line for the rest of me.”

Alexander’s face slowly splits into a broad grin. “Now, James, we see same.” One broad palm rests heavily on his shoulder, half a pat and half a blow; Jim barely avoids buckling to the ground. “Have enjoyed little chat. Now, come. We eat, and drink, then talk of sports and beautiful women.”

“After you.” Jim murmurs, summoning a smile into place. There are worse ways to start the evening.

***

Inside, the warmth surrounds him again and melts away the chill from outside. Alexander is now in grand spirits, summoning the rest of his family and making introductions in mixed Russian and English. Dimitri presents a polite expression, probably more for his father’s sake than anything; little Peter is nowhere to be found, but Alexander doesn’t seem particularly concerned, so Jim decides to stay quiet. In theory, there’s little trouble a boy can get into around here. _In theory._

Alexander sweeps his remaining two sons forward: Nikolai, a broadly-built auburn-haired lad freshly turned twenty-three, and Vladimir, nearly a twenty-year-old replica of Dimitri, though with paler skin and almond-shaped eyes. Behind them, the dark-eyed matriarch, a woman with full curves and coppery curls pinned artistically around her head, answers her husband’s call. Elegant silver strands interrupt the rich color of her natural hair, the only betraying hint of her advancing age. She greets Jim in perfect English and a polite curtsey, sweeping her lavender skirts to one side with a sweet smile. Of the gathered, Nikolai appears to be the one who inherited his mother’s looks.

“Evening, Gordon.”

Selina’s voice is familiar enough, but the ear interprets it differently tonight. In place of rough adolescent brashness, a delicate purr—even when she still refuses to use proper titles. He supposes it’s more endearing than aggravating, after all these months.

He turns to his left, mouth half open with an appropriately-witty remark, and then he sees her and his jaw unhinges. She’s almost beyond recognition: green eyes highlighted dark and accented with a light shimmer, lips painted pink, dress catching the light with every motion, and unruly curls somehow tamed into an elegantly-woven halo of dark gold. Even more striking, her posture has transformed. She no longer slouches or cocks her hip to one side, conveying there’s plenty of attitude to be given without warning, but instead stands tall and proper on heeled sandals, shoulders swept back and head held high to showcase her long neck. It’s incredibly difficult for his brain to associate _this_ Selina Kyle with the street thief who gives him more sass and trouble than he deserves.

“Selina! Selina!” Peter darts forward, arm already outstretched, and takes hold of her hand. He looks like a budding gentleman, dressed in a neat little suit with hair combed back and slicked with water or possibly gel. “It’s time. Sit by me! Sit by me!”

“Peter,” Madelaine softly chides, “you are not on the playground. Contain yourself.”

Her instructions come half a second too late, and Peter only offers a quick acknowledgement before dragging Selina towards another room. Alexander chuckles and tells his wife to leave the boy be. “Young love happens only once.” He murmurs affectionately.

Madelaine accuses him of coddling, albeit gently, and then instructs her sons to gather everyone into the dining room while she addresses matters in the kitchen. Opting to pretend like it’s his business, Jim steps closer and quietly makes an inquiry about Peter’s parentage. Not that it’s impossible—perhaps _improbable_ but not impossible—but he is rather curious about a woman, clearly middle-aged, giving birth in her mid-forties.

Again, not his business, but he’s a curious man.

“Is not of our blood.” Alexander answers, quite unabashed by the rather brazen question. “Found him on street. Took him in. Raise him as our own. So, you see,” a hand rests heavily on Jim’s shoulder, again, “when you speak of Iris, I know. I know, Gordon.”

Yes, he does. Better than Jim initially thought. Better than… “Please excuse me.” Jim murmurs, easing free of the man’s palm. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“Not too long.” Alexander calls after him. “Will be your head if food gets cold.”

***

He had to take a double-take with Selina, to register the transformation from an adolescent rubbed rough and battered hard from the streets, to a refined young woman swept up in a glamorous world with glamorous people into which she may not entirely belong, but she can work the look and rob people blind while they’re captivated by her sweet green eyes and demure little smile.

With his daughter, he is rendered mute and half-paralyzed against the doorframe while she quietly applies some final touches in the vanity mirror. She’s a vision in royal blue, the design preserving modesty yet highlighting her every curve and elegant form. A bejeweled white rose is nestled amongst thick black waves, fastening them in place; she’s wearing diamonds and sapphires, as if to match her engagement ring, and when she lifts blue eyes to find him in the mirror, she looks so very much like the woman portrayed downstairs over the hearth.

“James,” she turns and stands with fluid grace, skirt rustling lightly, hands outstretched in greeting, “I am glad you came.”

This time, he doesn’t question the sincerity of her tone. He smiles at her, takes slender hands in his, and calmly turns her right hand over, palm up. From the tender junction of thumb and index finger, stretching to mid-palm, he quietly studies the scar, faded to a dark pink color against her pale flesh. Studies it, examines the shape and depth, and his mind makes silent approximations as to the weapon responsible. Nothing more than educated guesses, from years around weapons of many kind—crude to elegant, handmade to manufactured—but his guesses usually have an 85% chance of being accurate. He likes those odds.

“What happened?” he asks, very calmly, very gently. She looks a little assured at his tender mannerisms, likely because she was expecting a furious demand for answers amidst promises of vengeance in her name.

“A business dispute.” She answers, in a similar tone. He nods, letting his thumb lightly run across the thinly-raised line of damaged skin.

“And has this dispute been resolved?”

Iris sighs, lifts one shoulder in a tiny shrug, and shakes her head. “I do not foresee this dispute coming to any sort of resolution, James.”

He nods again, then leans forward and sets a kiss to her forehead. “Will you make me a promise?”

“Yes.” She answers, and he’s incredibly relieved at the absence of any further explanation before giving reassurances. It speaks to a trust that he thought might be all but lost between them.

“Teach me.” He squeezes her injured hand, lightly. “Teach me how to be your dad.”

When Iris pulls back, there’s a tender smile on her lips that nearly moves him to tears. “Starting now.” She nods, clasping his hand tight in hers and guiding him towards the door. “Tonight, you will drink and dine and enjoy yourself. And, every time you become nervous or your mind wanders about, thinking you are in a den of murderers and thieves, remember this: my grandfather ran the clan with very specific rules; among them, only family is ever worth killing for. Disputes are to be handled via other means, but not with death, unless the offense is against the family. Very few of the men sitting around the table have ever taken a life. They are guilty of other sins, but not murder.”

It becomes very, very clear that Gotham is getting inside his head, when he hears those words and they actually bring him peace.

***

Jim makes a commitment to enjoy himself tonight and not worry about his lapse in better judgment until morning light. And he does. He enjoys himself immensely.

Iris seats him at her right and Zsasz at her left. The rest of the family selects their own chairs around the handsome stretch of sleek dark wood and intricately-carved design. Alexander and Madelaine take up their seats at the other end, with their sons dispersed close by. Peter eagerly regales his father with all the chess matches he and Selina have played over the past week, and joyfully announces he finally beat his chosen partner today, for the first time. Selina rolls her eyes, a little bit of dry amusement fringing her elegant features, and reminds Peter they are due for a rematch tomorrow morning. Alexander laughs loudly and proudly, praising his son’s determination and Selina’s sharp tongue.

“A tongue to get in trouble, then wriggle free.” He says, “You have great things in future, Little Cat.”

Jim hopes that’s true. He hopes for great things for Selina, for Bruce, for Iris…for this city. Even though Gotham seems determined to fight him, kicking and screaming, the whole way, he hopes for great things in her future.

He eats a five-course meal that leaves him fit to burst with the last bite, drinks the best wine he’s ever tasted—in moderation; he _is_ driving home, after all—and engages in conversation without a second thought. He and Iris reminisce about old times at the precinct while the others enter a furious debate over ratings at the horse track. Selina and Dimitri begin a conversation of their own, in which the former seems to be testing her newly-acquired knowledge of classical music and art against the latter’s. Fifteen minutes later, they are engaged in the millennium’s next great debate: Bach or Mozart? 

Little Peter slips free of his chair and comes to Iris, just before dessert is served, extends his arms upward, and she settles him in her lap like it’s the most natural thing to do. Jim drinks in the image, lets it settle deeply in his conscious, and quietly sighs. He can’t say if Iris wants children, but if she does…She holds Peter in perfect balance, one hand occasionally gliding through his dark locks, and sometimes even sets a little kiss to his cheek, earning a happy giggle in the process.

_Yes._ Yes, she most certainly could be a mother. He’s almost convinced it would be a sin to not let her bring children into the world. There might be a few other people he’d prefer as the fathering specimen, but…well, best not to dwell on that thought before it gets him in trouble.

A couple times during the meal, he lifts a glance to Zsasz’s face, halfway prepared to find a silent threat, or invitation to engage in combat. Instead, the hitman looks incredibly relaxed, calm, composed, utterly at ease. The second time Jim looks his way, Zsasz meets his eye. In dark blue depths and across a paper-thin smile, the message is communicated with eerie effectiveness: _I’m in a good mood. Don’t ruin it._

Jim’s in a good mood too. But there are still some things he needs to know. Some questions he needs to ask, but not of Iris. Not now, when she’s finally happy and in her element and has some semblance of control over her life, for once.

Zsasz finds him in the piano room, later, while the others are enjoying a post-dinner round of brandy. The room is dark, lit only by lamps in the foyer pouring thin streams of gold across the carpet and walls. It’s a very unfortunate and not ideal scenario, given the company he’s chosen for the moment, but Jim will take what privacy he can get.

“Tell me.” He says, in a voice low and meant solely for Zsasz’s ears. “From the beginning to right now, tell me. Tell me everything.”

_I’m ready to listen._

***

When the evening ends, Jim bids Iris a short but tender farewell. She tells him to consider wearing black suits more often. They flatter him. He thinks he might do exactly that.

He drives back into the city, to his downtown apartment complex, parks the car in the designated slot, and then begins to walk. He retraces the path he just drove, this time with foot on concrete, and lets the cold night air ebb away any tingling warmth of the wine. He certainly didn’t drink enough to be tipsy, let alone drunk, but the bitter chill helps clear his mind, refocus his thoughts, and fuel his forward path.

_Oswald’s_ is a madhouse tonight: music pumping through the floors and resonating off the walls at an unnecessary volume, patrons bouncing around and frolicking with each other like a randy pack of rabbits, and lights flashing, twirling, gleaming much too brightly. He blinks twice, narrowly avoids a shower of confetti that one girl is throwing into the crowd at random, and slips upstairs.

When he opens the office doors, three men immediately rise and finger their guns, with heavy scowls for such an uninvited guest. Jim stays calm, presents perfectly neutral, and nods at the dark-haired figure behind the desk. Penguin seems to take his mannerisms as a friendly gesture, because he ushers the hired guns away and beckons Jim closer. He obeys, once they’re alone. Subtly, his eyes slide across the desk, taking note of the papers and various office instruments set in neat order. Then his gaze settles on the gold blade of a letter opener, glimmering under the desk lamp.

“So,” Penguin says, clasping both hands atop his desk, “have you considered what I said?”

“I have.” Jim nods, coming closer. His eyes flick back to meet Penguin’s notably eager stare, but the letter opener remains etched across his mind’s eye, blurring anything else to fragmented detail. “I have indeed.”

“And?”

Jim smiles. It’s not really a smile; it’s forced, nearly painted on, and hardened at the edges. His fingers extend and lazily curl around the letter opener, lift it for closer inspection, and then he balances it carefully between four fingers. “This is nice.” He comments.

Penguin blinks, then shifts a little in his char. “It was a gift.” He replies, highly dismissive of the matter. “You didn’t answer me, Jim.”

“Pretty nice gift.” Jim continues, ignoring the latter comment, and perches on the desk edge. “Looks like real gold.”

Now, Penguin is getting irritated; it’s written all over his face. “Very likely.”

“In fact,” Jim says, as though this suddenly just occurred to him, “I think I’ve seen one just like it…no. No, I’ve seen this _exact same one_. About a year ago, if I’m not mistaken…” he twirls it a little, studying the hilt, “Oh, yes. Definitely. This is the one. The engravings are pretty distinct.” He points out, unnecessarily, with the same contrived smile in place. “Now, where did I see it…?”

He lets the thoughtful pause linger longer than necessary, because it finally feels so good to have the upper hand and not be Penguin’s whimpering lapdog, waiting for his table scraps. “Oh, that’s right: in Don Falcone’s study.”

His head tilts, just a little. “Now, it’s entirely possible that Falcone gave this to you, but I doubt it. I think someone else gave it to you. Someone who now has unrestrained access to Falcone’s mansion and everything in it.”

Now he slowly turns, pivoting atop the desk to face a lock-jawed Penguin with calm conviction and, he prays, nothing short of icy fury in his gaze. “I also think you took this gift, after Iris gave it to you,” he continues, very quietly, “and you plunged it into her hand like a crucifixion nail. Do you return all gifts like that?”

“ _Gift_?” Penguin hisses, hands locking into identical fists. “That was no gift! That was an _insult_. A blatant mockery!!”

“Actually, it probably was a gift.” Jim replies, unmoved by this little display. “She was probably trying to make amends for the men you lost.”

Penguin barks out a sharp laugh. “And she thinks a _letter opener_ is compensation for _seven_ men?”

Jim barely blinks. “She didn’t have seven men to give you in return, nor did she likely feel inclined to do so. You ran her uncle out of town while she was locked away in a torture room. She never even got to say goodbye. You then tried to claim the man she loves, like he is a dog for sale. And then you sent a thirteen-year-old girl to kill her—which, if I had to guess, you knew wouldn’t end well. You probably knew Zsasz would take Selina out, maybe after she killed Iris or maybe not, and you didn’t care. Just like you didn’t care when you came into my workplace and threatened my daughter to my face.”

“I told you,” Penguin says, voice now as tight as his fists, “it gave me no pleasure to do so—”

“—And yet, you did.” Jim leans closer, the letter opener held securely in one hand, clenched tight between white-knuckled fingers. “And when you drove this thing through her hand, I’m sure it gave you _great_ pleasure. So spare me the bull, Penguin. You want her dead. She’s spared your life for months, and you want to return the favor with a bullet in her head.”

Again, a humorous laugh. “Favor?”

Jim’s eyebrow lifts. “Do you have any idea,” he whispers, “what Victor Zsasz wants to do to you?”

That wipes the smirk right off Penguin’s face, and Jim feels no small satisfaction to witness it. “That girl wouldn’t dare…she doesn’t have the—”

“Spine? Guts? Actually, she does.” Jim’s throat contracts, just a little, as Zsasz’s earlier words resurface in his ears. “The man who took her is dead. Probably rotting away in the woods. Iris killed him. He did things to her; hurt her, beyond imagination, and she killed him for it. So…what exactly do you think is worth sparing about the man who ruined her family and tried, multiple times, to take the one thing she holds dear in this world?”

“Jim,” Penguin whispers, anger and rejection slurring together across his face, “you wouldn’t let her. It would be a _costly_ mistake.”

Now, it’s Jim’s turn to laugh. “Are you really going to threaten me now, _old friend_? Are you going to stick the blackmail back in my face and rub it in? _Are you_?”

He doesn’t given the other man a chance to answer; he leans forward, reducing the distance between them to mere inches, and tosses the letter opener aside. “I’ve got news for you, Penguin.” He breathes. “ _I do not care_. I don’t care if you conjure up Barker’s body from your magic hat. I don’t care if you fish out that bag of money and wave it around like a damn neon sign, declaring me guilty. I don’t care if you cost me my job and career and house and home. The next time you, your hired guns, or _anyone_ working under your command comes near Iris…I am going to take you to the peer, and I am going to do what I should have done from the beginning.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“—I would, and I will.” He cuts in, voice cold and furious even to his own ears. “This is your last warning, Penguin: _Stay away_ from my baby.”

Penguin yells after him, as soon as he gets up and makes a steady trek for the door. He vaguely hears bits and pieces of the progression: threats, then implorations, and finally his name. _Jim, Jim, Jim!_ A steady mantra, gradually increasing in desperate tones, until it dies under the thrum of music and the sound of late-night partiers taking to the streets. He quietly blends into the crowd, moving among them even if ignored, until he must take a different path to return home.

He walks in the door, looks around at the barren floors, the bare essentials of furnishings and embarrassingly-cheap décor, and the impulsive urge takes him without warning. A year ago, he would have taken pause, worried through the consequences, and talked himself out of it. Tonight, he runs with it: packs a quick bag, grabs his gun and badge, locks the apartment back up—not that it matters; there’s nothing worth stealing in here—and beelines to his car.

***

The door opens before he can even knock. Iris is in a dark teal silk robe, hair a thick braid draped over one shoulder, and wearing an amused smile. Inside, he can hear someone at the piano, gracefully playing out Mozart’s Requiem. Shakta appears at her mother’s side, studying Jim with big blue eyes and a little curious tilt that makes her seem like a cub again. He tentatively extends a hand, brushing fingertips through her fur; she purrs and nuzzles up against his hand.

When he looks back up, Iris has one eyebrow neatly arches in silent inquiry. He offers an innocent shrug. “Feel like putting your old man up for another night or two?”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile is unwavering. “I start charging after three nights.”


End file.
